Today I’d like to welcome writer and blogger Amber Sherer, who is part of the Limebird writers (and you can follow her on Twitter here), who is sharing a real life scary experience wit us. Watch out if you’re scared of clowns!
A clown on the banister
My family has always been close-knit. We simply walk into each other’s house while shouting “Knock knock!”, instead of actually touching the wood. When we were children, my brother and I were especially close. We shared childhood anxieties and neuroses, and his big sister was always there to chase the shadows back into the corners, even when I was just as afraid. The shadows followed us. They morphed into an isolating extreme case, because as we grew older, we stopped speaking about it. Mostly, I stopped speaking verbally to most people, and accepted the heaviness as a fact of life. I moved out of our parents’ house about three years ago now, but I’m still convinced that place has something dark into the bones of the frame. My brother still lives there, suffering with his own shadows that I can’t chase away.
Although we’ve drifted apart now, my brother and I were nearly inseparable while we were both under twelve. Our parents worked odd-hour shifts, so sometimes we’d get in long after dark from grocery shopping. Just being outside the house after dark sometimes wound my brother and me up, our mom was the Queen of spooking her children so they would not leave the house. (This would backfire and make two very neurotic but night-wise humans as we grew, in case any parents may be thinking of doing this, themselves.) Mom had a bay window at this time, and when leaving at dusk, she would often forget to close the curtains completely. The window gave view into the kitchen and part of the living room. A banister bar separated the living and kitchen spaces. Nothing hung from the banister at this time, simply wood from the bar to the ceiling. As we pulled into the house, we usually came in in front of the window. From our back seats, we could clearly see into the house – were the windows cracked, at least.
We drove in from the grocery store one night when I was about eight and my brother was about six. The curtains were partially open this night, so I could see into the kitchen. I could see the banister. Hanging from the banister was a clown, about a foot in length, staring out at me, with the most menacing and terrifyingly destructive face I’d ever seen. It felt like hate, it looked at me like I was the most disgusting thing on Earth. Loathing, pure wrath, was what he aimed at me. I wasn’t a child who had a fear of clowns or snuck peeks at horror movies. I developed a nervous temperament early in life, and I didn’t like anything that added to it. I didn’t scream, I couldn’t move. I closed my eyes with my head down, breathing heavy, almost in tears because I was so afraid. I breathed, breathed, and when I looked back up and it was gone. I didn’t want to go inside at all, but I didn’t say anything to my parents or brother. I convinced myself I didn’t see anything. I knew, somehow, that saying I’d seen this creature waiting for us wouldn’t go over well. Instinctually, I retreated into my own head. While there, I buried the clown and his face and fear and despise.
Well, I buried it for a few years at least.
I wrote it off as an overactive imagination, and as I got older I stopped thinking of it as often. There were new spooky feelings happening in the house anyway, what did a clown from childhood matter? However, I’d never completely forgotten it. A few years later, as tweens, my brother, cousins, and I were discussing spooky things that happened to us. I told them about the clown, trying to make it chuckle-worthy. My brother’s face darkened and then dropped completely. He told me that he’d seen it too that night, and never said anything either. I stared at him. He looked like he was about to start crying. He might have grown into a liar, but at this moment he was in the last stages of still being my lil’ bro that knew he needed his big sis to watch over him, and that it was good to ask for help.
We never spoke again about the clown, but sometimes I wonder about it, what it meant, what it was. Our family began its first round with issues we were old enough to have full memories of. Was he a herald of future events? I opened with saying that I feel something dark is in the bones of that house. I believe it. People draw towards them what they expect, and by what sort of vibrational frequency we emit. Many sorts of darkness entered that threshold. There is a heaviness to the house. We felt something as kids, my brother and I. Over time, he deadened his mind to the point he didn’t, but it still manifests in him. Something always moved in the corner of my eye. I felt an edge to every step I took. Until I moved away from there through a lucky coincidence, I didn’t expect I’d ever get out. On top of the human influence, the “elseness” made growing up strange indeed. Now, I’m learning to cope with those memories, and learning how to walk in the light, blissfully aware of the darkness but not fearing it.
Evil is human, but darkness is nature. In a way, that house nearly consumed me. But, it didn’t.
Why are clowns so scary?!